


Brimstone and Buttertarts

by jane_with_a_j



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Keeper's Chronicles - Tanya Huff
Genre: Gratuitous mentions of traditional Canadian sweets, I think perhaps you've got the wrong shop, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28442814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_with_a_j/pseuds/jane_with_a_j
Summary: Some flash bastard in a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses has been lurking around town for the past two weeks.  The man is much too old to be hanging around with a troubled teenager.  He's clearly up to no good.  It's up to Harry, middle-aged, small-town dad, to do something about it.  But has Harry got the situation all wrong?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) & Byleth (The Keeper's Chronicles), Harry Porter & Byleth (The Keeper's Chronicles)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 87





	Brimstone and Buttertarts

**Author's Note:**

> After writing a piece about Aziraphale and ex-angel Samuel, I realized that I _needed_ to write something about Sam's demonic counterpart. Because Byleth, minor demon trapped in the body of a teenage girl and cut off from Hell, is awesome and I love her. (Also that is literally all you need to know about her for this story to make sense, promise.)
> 
> Timeline-wise, this absolutely does not work with my other Good Omens/Keeper's Chronicles crossover. Consider it a standalone.

She was with that man again.

Harry knew, he _knew_ , that spying on your teenage children was a surefire way to drive them away. All the more so when the teenage children in question weren't your children at all, but angry runaways who had agreed, for whatever reason, to accept the offer to stay in your spare room for a while.

But on the other hand, that flash bastard in the sunglasses was _clearly_ far too old to be hanging around a troubled teenage girl.

Harry watched them from across the square, doing his best to remain inconspicuous. Byleth's hair was bright red this month, with wide black streaks. She wore tight black jeans and the kind of low-cut top that he thought he, as a father figure, ought to object to. God knew, she had tried to get him to object, but he knew better than to rise to the bait. She had sneered at him when he had finally suggested, distractedly, that she might want to bring a jacket, since it was a bit chilly out, before turning to his wife to ask if she'd like another cup of coffee. Byleth had very pointedly left without her jacket.

He couldn't help noticing that she was wearing it now. It must have been in the car all along. Harry couldn't help smiling. Teenagers.

His gaze fell again on the man with her, and the smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The man was dressed like an aging rock star, all tight black pants and dark red hair and sunglasses even though it was overcast. Harry had never seen the man without those damn sunglasses. It was ridiculous. It would have been laughable if he hadn't been sniffing around a vulnerable young girl for the past two weeks. The two of them were sitting on a bench deep in conversation. She said something, and he nodded, very solemnly. Then he said something, and she laughed. There was something like genuine happiness in that laugh, and, more than anything he'd seen, that worried Harry. It wouldn't do to make a scene, though, so he waited.

Five minutes passed, then ten. Finally Byleth stood. The man in the sunglasses reached up and patted her arm. Harry seethed. Byleth smiled – a rare thing, for her – then turned and walked away. The man in black leaned back, limbs sprawled every which way. He checked his watch, then looked up. Stood. Harry took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“Hey,” he said, striding purposefully across the square. “You.”

The man in black looked over at him, eyebrows raised. _Who, me?_ his expression said. Bastard.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “You. What in God's name do you think you're about?”

“In Her name? Not a blessed thing.” The man's smile was toothy. Insolent. Completely inappropriate for a man his age. His accent was English, Harry noted.

“You make a habit of hanging around teenage girls?”

Behind his sunglasses, the man blinked.

“Wha?”

Harry leaned forward, fully aware of how absurd his posturing must look, all middle-aged small-town menace. He didn't care.

“You think I haven't seen your kind before?” he asked.

“I doubt you have,” the man drawled.

“Sniffing around vulnerable girls less than half your age, plying them with–”

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, mate,” said the man, raising both hands and taking a half-step back. “I think you've got the wrong idea. I ... how do I explain this?”

“That's a very good question.”

“Crowley!” Harry started at the sound of another voice behind him. “There you are,” the voice said. Harry turned. The man approaching at a brisk walk was fair-haired and stout, dressed in a tan suit complete with waistcoat, tartan bow-tie, and ... was that a pocketwatch? “I've been looking all over for you,” the newcomer said, in a plummy English accent that fit his appearance perfectly.

“Been here this whole time, angel,” said the man in the sunglasses – Crowley, apparently – with a fond smile.

The blond man held up the canvas tote bag he was carrying. “The bakery was out of buttertarts,” he said, “but they had some lovely shortbreads and something called a Nanaimo bar.” He turned to look at Harry. “Hello,” he said.

“Um,” said Harry. “Hi.”

“My dear,” said the blond man, looking up at Crowley expectantly, “aren't you going to introduce me to your new friend?”

“I didn't get his name,” said Crowley.

“Erm,” said Harry. “Sorry. Name's Harry. Harry Porter.”

“A pleasure to meet you. I'm Ezra Fell.” The man smiled beatifically. “How do you and dear Crowley know each other?”

“Mr. Porter here is the man who has sort of ... adopted ... Byleth,” said Crowley, looking at Harry as if for confirmation.

“Oh, how lovely,” said Fell. Blue-grey eyes twinkled at him – literally twinkled. “You must be a very _good_ person. Wouldn't you say so, Crowley?”

“Ghh, yeah,” Crowley said, with a bit of a grumble. “Good.”

“I think it's marvellous that dear Byleth has inspired such goodness in another person,” said Fell. “Don't you agree?”

“Oh, yes, _marvellous_ ,” said Crowley, with an expression that was somehow both venomous and affectionate.

Harry had the distinct feeling he was missing something. And that he really had gotten the wrong idea.

“You know,” he said, by way of a peace offering. “If you're looking for buttertarts...”

Fell's expression brightened even further. The man was like a plump English sunbeam.

“Have you been to Silverbirch Cottage, over on Loyalist Drive?”

“I don't believe we have,” said Fell.

“It's a B&B,” said Harry, “but every Sunday afternoon, weather permitting, Victoria, who runs the place, sets up a little bakery stand in the gazebo out front. Best buttertarts in town. Plus, her girlfriend's from Rimouski, makes a traditional _sucre à la crème_ to die for.”

“Crowley!” Fell exclaimed, grabbing the other man's arm. “Tomorrow is Sunday! We should go!”

“Anything you like, angel,” said Crowley.

“Oh, splendid! I'm so glad we made this trip together,” said Fell.

“Yeah, me too,” said Crowley. “About that. I need to talk to Mr. Porter here for a moment. I'll meet you back at the inn?”

“Of course, of course,” said Fell. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Porter.”

Harry watched Crowley watch Fell leave, a look of exasperated fondness on the red-haired man's face.

“Well,” said Harry after a moment. “I suppose I owe you an apology.”

“Nah,” said Crowley. “I know what it must've looked like. What _I_ must look like.” He grinned, flashing a set of very straight, very sharp-looking teeth. “It takes effort to look this disreputable.”

“How do you and Byleth know each other, then?”

Crowley adjusted his sunglasses. “Exactly how much has Byleth told you about her past?” he asked.

“Not a lot that made any kind of sense,” Harry admitted. Early on, the girl had been prone to going off about Satan, and hellfire, and eternal damnation. He and his wife had considered the possibility that it was just teenage dramatics. “Sometimes it sounded like she might have been in some kind of a cult,” he said, a wry smile on his face.

Crowley grimaced. “You're not far off,” he said.

“Oh,” said Harry, stupidly. That wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. It explained a lot, though, he supposed. Poor kid.

“I got out myself,” said Crowley. “A while back, now. It can be ... an adjustment.”

And what could Harry even say to that? “I bet,” he managed.

“I wasn't alone,” Crowley went on. “Had my angel to help me through it.” And there was that fond smile again.

“But Byleth has no one,” said Harry.

“Not no one, exactly,” said Crowley. “There's you. And your wife. But–”

“But we can't really _understand_ ,” said Harry.

“Right,” said Crowley.

“Well,” said Harry. “In that case, I guess I'm glad she met you.”

Crowley held out a hand to shake. Harry took it. He still wasn't entirely sure that this man was trustworthy, but it was, he thought, best to give people a chance, when you could. He'd have to make sure to talk to Byleth about all of this, when he got the chance, though.

“Angel and I are headed back to London on Tuesday,” said Crowley. “But Byleth has my number. I told her we'd keep in touch.”

“Of course,” said Harry.

A long, awkward silence followed.

“Um,” said Harry. “I hope you enjoy Victoria's buttertarts.”

“Not me,” said Crowley. “Can't stand the things. Never been one for sweets, me.” His voice softened. “Angel loves them, though.”

Another awkward silence.

“Well,” said Harry. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Crowley.”

*****

Across the square, Byleth stood just out of sight, watching. That angel friend of Crowley's had cornered her a few days ago, and told her she was being cruel, tricking poor Mr. Porter into thinking something untoward was going on. Posh celestial dork had actually used that word, _untoward_. Byleth had told him to mind his own business, and also, duh. She was a demon – well sort of a demon – former demon? – and if she wanted to be cruel, she would blessed well be cruel. Double-duh.

The strange, soft feeling that she got from the knowledge that someone cared enough to try to put a stop to anything potentially _untoward_ was just a bonus. Really.


End file.
